A conversation with Meg
by Crimson Siyrean
Summary: One shot. PFN Morbid entry. After Christine has left with Raoul, the Phantom decides he has some unfinished business with a girl who'd led the mob to his door.


A Conversation with Meg

* * *

Meg tightened her cloak around her shoulders as she made her was home from the opera house. Already the night was in full bloom and the streets were seemingly absent of life. 

"Meg."

The girl stopped. Had she just heard what she thought she did? After looking around quickly, Meg took a deep breath and continued on her way, though with her nerves slightly on edge.

"You have something that belongs to me, Meg."

Now that couldn't have been the wind. Again she stopped, and again she looked around into the darkness, seeing nothing but the empty night.

"Give me back my mask, Meg."

A voiceless scream left from the girl's mouth before falling into darkness.

* * *

Slowly her senses came back to her. The smell of moist air and the sharp pain in her head were the first to be recognized. Then she could tell that there was a dull, flickering light if she would just open her eyes. Moaning as she did at last lift those heavy lids, it was quickly cut to a blood-curdling scream. 

There was a body! A dead decaying body, kneeling just beside her, its foul chin rested upon the steeples of gloved fingers. There was no movement in its expression, but those eyes, those eyes were alive!

Roughly Meg pushed herself back, unable to stop the screams poring from her throat, with the pain in the back of her head protesting all the more acutely. She struggled to stand but could only trip over herself as her frantic panic took an ever-stronger hold on her form.

The corpse laughed. It laughed a horrible, demonic laugh, and it rose. Realization dawned upon the trembling girl when her eyes met the mans, and her screams faded to a whimper. Rapidly her eyes darted from one corner of the room to the other, looking for a means to escape. She was in his home, or what was left of it after the mob had been through. The chamber had signs of destruction all about it; it was no longer a simple room but what looked like a storage place for broken junk.

But there was a door. Just to her right, up a steep staircase was an exit, though its door was destroyed. She remembered it from when she was here last, when she found his mask. She needed to get out that door.

The man was no longer laughing but smiling at her in a no less warming manor. Its twisted features so artfully composed to a cold glare that brought tears of fear to her eyes. "I'm sorry about my face, but it would seem I've misplaced my mask."

Dear god, that voice!

"You're… I thought you were dead," she mumbled to herself. Meg willed her hands to relax, lest her palms start to bleed.

And then the corpse spoke. It spoke with a voice that unfurled itself from all corners of the chamber, wrapping its tones around her like cold silk. "An understandable mistake, I assure you. But ghosts don't have a tendency to die."

Again it laughed.

"What do you want from me? Why are you doing this?" Meg's voice rose in panic while her eyes once again flickered to the door. His eyes followed.

The man stepped to her right, successfully obstructing her view of the exit, though in doing so he also came much closer to the cornered girl. He seemed to be considering his answer.

"Why?" he began in a quite voice though it was nonetheless unnerving. "Lets' see, your mother's actions in leading the Vicomte to my home, deprived me of my wife, so I've deprived her of her daughter." The girl shivered. "You, on the other hand, lead the mob which destroyed everything I had left; my home, my music, _my life._" His caustic words attacked her with each syllable as he took a step closer. "So I intend to take yours."

The girl's mouth dropped slightly as terror began to seize her emotions. "No. No you can't, you can't mean to…" A pause, a swallow, and a breath of air. "Kill me?" came the words almost inaudible.

"Eventually…" One skeletal gloved hand reached out towards her, snapping her last strand of reason. With a surge of strength that could come only from a terrified animal, Meg pushed the man from her and dashed towards the door.

"Oh no you don't," she heard him call from behind, but she was almost up the stairs! Then with staggering force, a hand took hold of the waist of her skirt and flung her back. She fell from the stairs with such overwhelming momentum that when she did at last come to a stop in a crumbled heap on the floor, it was echoed by an audible snap and her simultaneous scream of pain.

Erik circled the girl, eyeing the ankle, which she grasped, curiously. "Not the method I would have chosen to incapacitate you, but it is none the less effective. Is that broken?" She scowled up at him. "Pity, many dancers careers are ruined after a bad break, not that such things should concern you now."

Again he was smiling.

Pain coursed through her visibly shaking body as she struggled to contain her cries. "Monster," she gasped out at last, tears falling from her eyes.

His smile faded and he descended next to the girl.

"Keep away from me!" she screamed out, struggling to back away though her ankle made it near impossible.

"But my dear, how ever will you fulfill your roll of wife from such a distance?"

Her eyes snapped up to meet his. "_Wife_," she echoed dully, not at all trusting her ears.

"That is what your mother took from me, is it not?" Meg paled. "I know what you're thinking and no, I have no intention of marrying you, child." The man leered; telling her full well that they both knew her concern lied elsewhere.

"Wh-what are your intentions?" she asked in a shaky voice, flinching as he moved closer.

A hand pushed her tumbled hair back before resting on her arm. "We shall see," he answered lowly. She shivered as the hand moved to her waist. He was now so close that she nearly choked on his smell as fear bound tightly with disgust moved swiftly over her body.

Despite the pain in her ankle, Meg managed to pull herself away and out of reach while he laughed at her distress. "I'd rather kill myself!" she spat. "You hear me? I'd rather _die,_ if I'm going to die anyway."

"We all have to die; it's only a question of when and how…" His voice was barely above a mumble but its velvet strands where still able to penetrate her very core. "Your modesty is very charming, coming from a dancer, but I may be able to help you out after all," he said with an entirely unnerving look in his eyes. "_A choice._ I gave Christine a choice after all, why should I deny you the same?"

He then left the room but returned quickly enough, holding a strange casket. Meg bit her lip and felt the metallic, sweet heat of blood brush her tong, all the while watching as the man placed the case to the side and opened it. Carefully he took two objects from within and placed them a few feet in front of her, his expression now completely serious.

One object looked to be some sort of decorative dagger. The other, Meg was shocked to see, was a large black scorpion.

"Malevolent looking fellow, isn't he?" he said with a hint of amusement in his voice. "With this, I give you your choice. The knife," his fingers brushed the cold, dead surface. "May grant you a nearly painless death. I recommend slitting your wrists, you don't have nearly enough strength to break through your breastplate for a truly grandiose soliloquy, and you can barely stand, let a lone scratch me with the thing. Or you may choose the Scorpion." He smiled fondly at the creature. "Its venom is among the most painful in the world, and would most likely kill you after your suffering. But it gives you more time, and if you're careful, you may avoid its sting altogether."

Meg wished for nothing more than to wake up and have this all be a dream. She wanted to see her mother again, her friends, this couldn't be happening. "I can't make that kind of choice!" she cried furiously.

"Christine did."

"And the Vicomte saved her!"

He raised an eyebrow. "You said you'd rather kill yourself, so now I'd like to see you do it," he answered simply. "That is unless you'd like me to help make the decision easier. I could make the first cut if you like. It would be sharper and deeper than yours would be, but there's always the other option, and that you may even enjoy."

Meg retched at the thought, making clear her opinion on that matter, though Erik did not seem surprised. His words didn't really strike her as a choice so much as a threat.

She picked up the knife and stared at it for a long time, seeing its silver metal edge and envisioning it planted deep and coldly within man towards her. She forced her eyes closed, in a desperately slow blink. What choice did she have? He was going to kill her anyways, why not end her suffering now? "Do it," his voice commanded her.

_Do what?_

It was an odd looking knife, obviously foreign with what seemed to be some sort of insect carved into the hilt. She couldn't do it. She wouldn't do it! _No!_

But just as that thought entered her mind, Erik descended on her, twisting her thin arm out in front with bruising force. "You need to finish what Christine started," he hissed. "Do it now or resolve your self to replacing my wife." A hand clasped tightly to her jaw and forced her head upwards. "And such a pretty little thing."

That was all she needed to hear before she yanked her arm back and moved the blade across the delicate flesh.

"And the other one, I do not wish to be waiting around while you to bleed to death."

Her mind barely registered the voice but its command seemed to over power any resistance. She made the second cut, if only out of spite and raised her chin.

_Dear god what had she done!_

Meg stared at the two rivers of blood making their way from her veins and forming a glossy pool on the floor where she was sitting. He had given her no choice but at least she was dying by her own hand rather than his, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of killing her. But there was so much blood! She didn't want to die, she was too young! Only eighteen with a promising career lay out before her… but innocent. Innocent she would go, dressed in white…

She moved, tired to stand up, wanting nothing but to get to that door. She gripped her wrists but couldn't move, with that ankle without the use of her hands.

"You do realize that movement only increases the blood flow?"

This was just too much, everything was just too much. She didn't deserve this; she deserved life. Tears streamed down her cheeks, her mouth opened in a silent prayer as her vision hazed. This man was a monster; she had every reason in the world to lead those people to his home...

God, there was so much blood.

* * *

Meg's eyes opened to find it wasn't a dream; she was still there, in the phantoms lair, though now with the strong scent of blood clinging sickly to the air. She looked up from the stone floor to see Erik watching her with interest.

It took only a moment for her to find her voice. "I… I passed out? How, how long?"

"You fainted, and for roughly fifteen minutes. Those cuts weren't nearly deep enough to do any real damage," he said with a contemptuous sneer. "Your panic was likely the cause of your faint. You were out just long enough for me to bind your wrists."

She looked down to see that her wrists were indeed bandaged tightly. "Why?"

"Well, you were making an awful mess and the scent of blood was exciting our little friend there." He motioned to the scorpion that was making its self comfortable beside the girl. "Oh and I wouldn't make any sudden movements while he's that close to you."

"Why didn't you let me die?"

He smiled. It was a cold smile full of mocking knowledge while dead eyes lingered over her form. "And deny myself the pleasure of that very act? No, I will be the one to decide that. I simply wanted to see if you would."

Meg shook her head. Was it truly possible what she was hearing? She looked up and realized, the man was surly mad.

"What options did I have?" was her cold reply.

"Few would choose eternal damnation over a scorpion's tail… though to pick suicide over me, well that doesn't seem so far fetched now does it?" He noticed her looking up at him skeptically. "I take pleasure in the fact that I could _frighten_ you into turning your back on your god and committing the one sin in which you can never find forgiveness. Even murderers can be forgiven, even _I_ for that matter."

The girl couldn't believe what she was hearing. She thought of her innocents, and that now blood stained white dress, being found like some ghostly fallen child, a martyr in the way of virtue so to speak… And here he was, waiting to see if she would consciously damn herself to eternity in hell! For his amusement no less.

"Monster! Loathsome beast!" she yelled, pushing her self to her knees. The fire of anger giving her the strength she sorely lacked.

The man smirked again. "Do you mean to insult me? My dear, those _are_ my names, my true names - what I was given at birth." The last stated flatly. "But one simply can not go around introducing ones self as _Monster_ all the time, it has a certain stigma to it, don't you think? So I picked up Erik along the way. So you may call me, _Erik_."

"You are a monster and you belong in hell," she retched, her blurred vision becoming harsh lines as her hatred and despair took hold of her chest. "That face was given to you as a warning to people- _good, decent_ people, to show the world the decay of your soul and keep us away from your foul touch. That voice was a gift from the devil himself," she declared, as her voice grew stronger. "Only a Demon could disguise their selves as an Angel."

Meg had spat every word and with each syllable, Erik's expression grew darker. He slowly approached the girl, his mouth a thin line, and his eyes cold and penetrating. Meg felt whatever courage she had had to say those words, flee under his harsh gaze. She watched as he removed his gloves.

_This was it_, she thought, he was finally going to kill her. _Good,_ she had had enough of these games_. Kill me and I will not be damned, not like you._

A hand rose and she closed her eyes tightly, bracing for his strike, but instead she felt the strange sensation of his finger simply trailing down her face. It began just beside her eye and made its way slowly to her jawbone, traced along it and slid off at her chin.

"Tell me, what did you feel?" came his voice, softly.

Meg opened her eyes to see him sitting just beside her. His expression was unfathomable.

"A… a finger, run down my cheek and to my chin."

He stood up and walked a little away. "A finger. Are you sure?" He turned to face her. "A finger! Are you sure it was not a claw, or a talon perhaps? Not a decaying hand, not a skeletal bone? It did not burn? It did not freeze?"

He came back and stood over her. "A finger! No pain, no blood?" He laughed. "Did you know that with these _fingers_ I could play the music of the heavens? I could bring all the beauty of the world, all the pain, all the suffering together into one glorious strand of melody that could rival any piece of this time? Do you realize that these fingers, which can create such beauty have never actually touched beauty?"

He moved away from the girl, seemingly lost in thought. "I grow weary of this life," he mumbled to himself with a deep breath, flexing his hands repeatedly, looking upon them oddly. Meg shifted slightly, not knowing exactly what to make of this strange Phantom.

A movement caught the corner of both their eyes and in a gasp Erik whirled round on her. In an instant Meg saw the thin dagger impaling the scorpion upon the floor. She looked up at him, her mouth gaping open.

"There really was only one choice," he said dully before walking out of the room.

A cold silence seemed to fill the air, suffocating her with its finality. Meg shivered while watching the scorpions twitching, cold, black form slowly die. She was sure that had she listened, she could have heard it scream. But now it just lay there, almost peaceful and she was all alone. Christine had gone and so had the music… this was all that there was left.

Meg hugged herself, not fully understanding why she was once again crying. The scorpion and the knife sat before her, as did the door… his and the exits. She wanted life. She wanted to be free, and above all, she wanted peace at last in this old opera house. It was something they all longed for. Her mother, herself, Christine…

* * *

She hobbled into his room not long after he entered, the knife tucked securely at her back. Sitting on the remains of his organ, he turned to face her. "Are you that eager to die?" he asked softly, looking her over carefully.

Meg glared back, keeping her face as expressionless as possible. "Yes."

His eyebrows rose. "Any last requests then?" he asked, still eyeing her with suspicion.

"Yes. Tell me why you let Christine go." Meg struggled to keep her voice steady as she asked but found it difficult. She could barely even stand without the support of the wall.

"Why? Hoping I'll do the same for you?" He gave her a half smile but there was no real effort in it. "Very well, I'll tell you. Christine forgave me. I wished to keep that forgiveness and finally die in peace, but your god wouldn't even allow me that!" His voice grew and he rose from his seat. "So I'll have my revenge until he wishes I had been allowed that final mercy."

He began to move towards her.

"And when you do pass on?" she asked, a hand moving awkwardly to her back.

"It will be too late by then."

He stopped just a few feet in front of her.

"Is it ever too late?"

He smiled. "We shall see."

* * *

_**a/n:** i never posted this one, (it's from like 2005) because i was never happy with it. but i've gone back over and done some editing. hopfully it comes across as i had initially intended. i'm planning on getting back into fic-ing... though hp stuff ducks and covers, so i thought i should clear some things out first. at this point though, i'm not sure that i'll ever finish pom, regretfully. _

_oh, R&R!_


End file.
